I. Succumb to me
Staring into the flickering light of the fire burning in one of the braziers, Créon had to admit to himself a truth he did not like to face: He was afraid.
How could the boy have done it? How could he possibly? At one stroke, Créon had lost his two most valuable men at that inexperienced youth's hands – except that Niobe was a woman, of course, but it did not matter to him whether someone was male or female, as long as they served him. Adhemar, his most faithful and reliable acolyte, was dead. As was Niobe, the strongest among his followers.
In a corner, all by himself, Bertrand was standing, looking utterly lost and shivering visibly. The man probably thought that he was going to be the next to die. Watching him, Créon's upper lip curled with disdain. How could one of a better kind than the servants around him forget himself so much?
The servants. He was losing servants rapidly, too. Not that they were of any real importance, yet to have some was necessary, and getting new servants was always bothersome. Some of them had already run away, as far as he knew.
Turning his head, he found himself facing just whom he had expected to face. "Make sure their morale improves, Febis," he commanded, keeping his voice clipped and emotionless.
The tall old man with the white hair and beard and the proud, noble features, inclined his head in acceptance. "Yes, Master." His voice was full and deep. "I will once again increase the numbers on the patrols, though that means less patrols, and less cover for us here."
Créon nodded curtly. "Do it." Then he turned his attention to the dancing flames again. That man was a gypsy, yet not of the kind of the others. Of their blood maybe, yet not with a mind quite as petty as theirs, thieves and thugs as they were, though he was not a Lost One by far. A shaman he called himself, a magician and conjuror, and though Créon had never seen any of the old man's arts, he did not doubt his word. But he did not truly care. What really mattered was that Febis kept the servants in check, nothing more. That was all he was there for. Why should Créon bother with the servants himself?
The boy. Still he managed to elude him. Still he managed to uphold the shield on himself. For a moment he had let it slip, just before he had killed Niobe, and Créon had felt his exhaustion then, so it was only a question of time until he lost it utterly. Créon would just have to wait.
Yet still, even with his mind unprotected by an outer barrier, the boy was strong. Tremendously strong.
He had always been strong.
In the firelight, his soot-darkened features seemed twisted, his shoulder-length hair dishevelled, the strands partially moist with sweat and blood. His teeth seemed strangely white as he bared them to a snarl. "You cannot win," he hissed over their crossed blades, his bright eyes alight with the fire of hatred.
"Neither can you," the Herald of Fate rumbled. "You have already lost, greedy fool, whatever you choose now." His opponent side-stepped and launched another attack, which he parried, though its fierceness made him stumble. "If you win or lose this duel does not matter anymore, for already you are an outcast, a traitor of your own blood."
"Give her back!" his opponent cried, raining him with blows, without his usual grace at combat, just with the brute force his wrath and pain gave him.
The Herald of Fate laughed, heedless of the bleeding cut across the shoulder he had just received. "This matter is out of my hands, my friend. What I did cannot be undone. The dead cannot be recalled from the Twilight."
"The Lord of Shadows owes me a favour!" The fool's swirling blade met his thigh, and he almost fell, but he did not care. Wounds would heal.
"Really?" He countered the attack, assaulting his opponent's mind at the same time, but both were thrown off. "And do you think he really would grant it now? Not anymore, apart from the question if a soul's worth was ever included in the promise of a little treat for the amusement of hearing your pretty voice."
Once again he felt the cold steel cut into his flesh. "Hold your filthy tongue, or I will cut it out and feed it to the crows!"
"You may try, my foolish friend. You may try."
Yes, the young fool had not changed one bit. He was still who he had used to be, though he seemed to remember nothing at all.
Nothing at all? Créon had found no traces of memory in his mind, yet what he had seen in young Erik's dwelling identified him clearly enough, apart from his features and scars. For who else would be able to draw an accurate sketch of the Pillars of Heaven? And who could do it better than the man who had originally devised and built them? The pictures had shown them just as they had been, as Créon remembered them, the vast bulwarks and bastions of the world of the Divine, steep, sheer ramparts crowned by parapets of stone, watchtowers, turrets and pinnacles rising up to heights almost unconceivable to humankind. They had been built after the exile of the Bearer of Light and the First War of the Shadow, and they had served their purpose, for never had they fallen, not even in the end. They had been breached through treason alone, and by the very same man who had built them, and whose duty it had been to guard the inner realm of the Divine against the threat of the Shadow.
What irony lay in the fates of those of the divine blood just as well as in those of lesser men!
And once again Créon would prove this irony, by overthrowing the boy in his very own realm.
He had to. He simply had to. Failure was no option to him. This time, he had to succeed in manipulating and ensnaring the boy.
And this time, he would be careful not to underestimate what was called the power of love.
Would the boy's friends turn up again? If they did, they would be killed this time. They had no more function, no more use now. Except the girl, who might have to be kept close for some time. Créon had not quite decided on that. Once before he had tried to manipulate him by means of using the girl, and it had not worked the last time. The last time, the foolish boy had destroyed himself when he had learned of her death, so this mistake would not be repeated. The others could die, but not the girl young Erik loved.
He had meant to make use of Adhemar in order to break the boy. Now he would have to think of something else.
And the boy would pay dearly for the loss of Adhemar!
As things were, there was only Aeternus left to him, for Bertrand was of little use. Only Aeternus. Créon clenched his teeth. Aeternus was impossible to control, not to be trusted. Aeternus had a mind of his own, and he used to play a game of his own sometimes. He might be playing one of his little games even now, who knew? Never rebelling openly, he still sometimes acted as he chose to, without consulting anyone else first – if he acted at all. For Créon remembered what Aeternus had once been, ages and ages ago. Aeternus had always been… different. And Créon knew what all the others of his men and allies did not: He knew what the rotten, shrivelled hand meant.
The confrontation would come, and it would come on this new day, Créon was certain. Young Erik would come to him once again. He had always come back.
Time to devise a new plan, then. The Keeper of the Gates needed to yield to the Herald of Fate before the reign of eternal darkness could begin.
And Créon would make him. He had to. There was no other choice for him; there had never been.
Staring into the fire, his own admittance of fear filled him with anger. There was so much the boy would have to answer for. So much…
